Fête de la Fédération
by LadyTrampleton
Summary: A short slightly historical story of the Storming of the Bastille. Rated T because I'm slightly paranoid.


Fête de la Fédération

It was the 14th July. Fête de la Fédération, or as it was better known in English, Bastille Day. France stood within the crowds of his kinsmen, his blue eyes towards the sky. While it was July, the evening air was not very warm. He wore a beige coat and boots to keep in the warmth; in one hand was a cup of hot coffee, the steam rising upwards. His blond hair was pulled back, covering the nape of his neck. The Eifel Tower looked beautiful against the evening sky, illuminated proudly as the crowd waited for the final instalment of celebrations.

France smiled, blowing on his coffee to cool it. The military parades earlier had been full of grandeur and splendour. Rows upon rows of blue military uniforms filled along the streets of Paris, marching proudly with guns in hands, instruments playing and drums beating. France had enjoyed the sight of both old and new uniforms; it reminded him how much the world had changed. Children had squealed at the sight of the soldiers, waving flags manically and crying out to fathers or uncles who were marching stiffly by. France thought it sweet. He could remember being part of many parades, showing off to his countrymen and impressing small children.

Suddenly, a firework exploded behind the Eifel Tower. The crowd cheered and clapped, happy that the final display had started. France enjoyed the bright lights fireworks created, but he was always a little unsure of the explosions. He had been in few too many wars to feel fully comfortable, but his people were enjoying the spectacle. He had to be pleased about that. Another firework whizzed through the air and exploded in a bright display of reds and gold sparks. The crowd gasped and cheered at the sight, smiling at the loudest explosions that made the ground vibrate. France had to smile. He always enjoyed today, though for him it was a sombre occasion.

14th July 1789. He had been there that day.

The memories came flooding back. He could see it in his mind's eye, the fortress and prison known as the Bastille. It represented royal authority, the King's justice. Those imprisoned were normally political prisoners, those who wanted change and prosperity for a nation crippled by heavy-handed rule.

An economic crisis had torn through France. Costs of war, assistance with America's Revolution and endless taxation of the poor had stirred something within the nation. Tensions grew all the more when the middle classes had began to grow more influential, something that the French royalty would not stand for. The middle classes had begun to turn on the royal family, their support growing rapidly. Eventually, even the nobility joined forces against the King.

Such events had started the Revolution, but the real spark had ignited on that day in July. The agitation and restlessness had affected him that day too. France had left the palace in the early morning to wander the streets of Paris, hoping to find a distraction for his foul mood. However, very few people had been awake at that time of the morning.

As the day wore on, France found himself wandering the streets of Paris aimlessly. It was approximately midday when he found himself in a market place, watching a group of men shouting loudly. Crowds began to form around them, numbers swelling as the men's cries grew louder. Whispers began to flow throughout the streets. More and more bystanders began to join in with the men's demands. Emotions began to rise, infecting all those nearby. Whispers turned into heated conversations. Men appeared with muskets, passing them through the crowds along with tiny bullets – known as shots – and powder. Murmurs of political prisoners kept locked inside the Bastille floated through the mass, followed by feelings of anger, outrage and grim determination. Those that spoke against the King were allies. The people of France needed voices, rallying and shaping them into a force that could take down the King and stop the ridiculous taxes that kept the commoners so poor.

France did not remember who suggested the idea. Maybe no one did, maybe it was a conscious decision by the crowds as they began to think as one. A few men began to move away, tugging comrades in the direction of the Bastille. Others began to follow, eager to be a part of the movement. France had found himself following, his feet moving of their own accord. He kept to the back of the crowd; he had no musket to use should the march become heated. Cries of "liberté" echoed throughout the streets. The people wanted action. Many wore a rosette of blue, white and red. This was the symbol of the Revolution worn by those who wanted change.

France remembered with a wry smile that there had only been seven inmates inside the Bastille that day. The most important prisoners had been moved to a different location in the previous week. Nevertheless, the crowd had grown determined to free whoever they could. Tense, quivering excitement gripped the crowds as they made their way through the streets of Paris. This was the moment they had wanted, a chance to rebel against those in power, a chance to show just how forceful the people could be, a chance to prove that they would not be trodden on again.

At the Bastille, men stood watching the mass of people approach. They were grateful to be high up on the parapets. Nervousness bubbled within their chests as the crowd grew larger. There were not many on duty that day, as there were only a few inmates to guard. No one expected such a crowd to amass. Orders came to ready their muskets. With heavy hearts and shaking hands, the guards did as they were instructed.

As the crowd reached their destination, the men with muskets pushed their way to the front. Women and children hid inside any building they could while many upturned market stalls, wagons or carts for cover. Grim determination settled over the crowd. It was too late to turn back now. Wheels had been set in motion. Either the Bastille would fall, or the entire crowd would die. Men touched their rosettes, praying to God for success. France stood by a doorway, watching with bated breath.

France didn't remember who fired first, but suddenly shots whizzed through the air. Men fell clutching wounds and were pulled away by their fellows, their muskets taken and given to the next able-bodied man. It all happened so quickly. Volleys continued, the men on the parapet falling at a faster rate than the crowd. A few foolishly brave men scrambled forwards during the crossfire, huddling for safety behind anything they could. At a snail's pace, they made their way to the front of the Bastille, cowering as they worked to pick the locks. Two went down, then another. No one was close enough to pull them away as shots continued to rain down.

More brave boys rose to help, many dying as they made their way. Men fell from the parapets, dead before hitting the ground. Women screamed, children cried, men shouted... The earlier buzz of anger had been replaced by a sense of impossibility. Some began to leave, fearing the reprimands of the King for daring to defy his rule. But most stayed. They had come too far to turn back. Even if they died this day, their defiance was a symbol. The King could not ignore the masses much longer; soon he would have to consider their needs.

They may not win, but their children might. Future generations would look back on this day with awe...

Somehow, the doors of the Bastille were opened. Firing ceased as the hinges squeaked, signalling the prison's defeat. It took a moment for the crowd to comprehend what had happened, but soon they were cheering and roaring their success. Five of the seven inmates stumbled out, painfully thin men covered in dirt and rags. They were led by their grinning countrymen. Elation swept through the crowds; they had won a great victory this day. Some began to cry and hug their fellow countrymen; a few women and children even broke out in a dance.

It was all over. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours... France didn't know for sure. A mixture of emotions twirled inside his chest. Elation and wonder felt by his people, fear and trepidation felt by his royal family and curiosity felt by himself. As he watched his people celebrate, a young boy dropped his musket, sending a rogue shot flying towards where France stood. The shot barely missed him as he dove to the ground, landing with a laugh among a group of giggling girls.

Gold and green sparks flashed in the sky, bringing France out of his memory. The final few fireworks were whizzing and spinning through the air. He smiled and took a sip of his now lukewarm coffee.

He wondered whether next year's celebrations would be just as good.

* * *

><p>Note:<p>

I would imagine that France would be divided on the issue of the Revolution. While he would understand the feelings of the common people and the restlessness within Paris, his duty would be to his King. I imagine that, as he's the personification of the country, he would be treated as part of the nobility or even royalty.

Anyway, I hope I managed to capture some of the spirit felt on Bastille Day. All you Frenchies out there, please feel free to correct me. ^_^


End file.
